


A Sick Kind of Love

by smallangrysciencebro



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Oneshot, Self Harm, alchoholism, life sucks, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11795295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallangrysciencebro/pseuds/smallangrysciencebro
Summary: You and Dean comfort each other when times get hard.Descriptions of self-harm. If that kind of writing is triggering I suggest you don't read this fic.DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.





	A Sick Kind of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Descriptions of self-harm. If that kind of writing is triggering I suggest you don't read this fic. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.

When Dean asked you to go the bar with him and Sam you declined, welcoming the time alone to work on your tapestry of scars and gave Dean a sweet smile that could have rotted your teeth saying you were going to stay home and turn in early. He was suspicious but didn’t protest.

 

When Sam asked if you were okay before he and Dean left because he noticed a glint of something in your eyes you told him you were tired. You didn't lie, but sleeping wouldn't help your kind of tired.

 

When the massive bunker door finally slammed shut in the distance with a clang your feet carried you to the bathroom before your brain could catch up and tell you to stop. But you couldn't stop. You wanted the pain, needed it and craved it like a heroin addict craves a high. Your thoughts were the needle, and your blade was the drug, and you couldn’t stop even though you knew you should because you were pathetic and deserved every slice in your no longer soft skin.

 

You parked yourself on the cold floor before your knees buckled and sat you down for you and pulled your box of razors from the spot under the sink where you last left them. Before you could work up even a sliver of will to force yourself to stop your hands pulled open the box, and your fingers flew over the multitude of somewhat sterile razors, some showing flecks of orange and you pulled those out of the box tossing them into the trash. It was irrational, but even though you sliced your skin open like it was a regular Friday night pastime, you wouldn't touch the rusted or unsterile blades to your skin with a 5-foot pole. Figuratively of course because you sat right at this moment on the tile floor of the bathroom sorting through the blades with your bare fingers( which had skin) and cleaned the un-rusted ones with rubbing alcohol.

 

You pulled out a sharp razor out of the box and shoved the box back into its hiding place, pulling yourself up and taking a seat on the toilet and tracing lines on your skin, not yet pressing. Your eyes run over the spider web of white lines crisscrossing your bare arms and you slowly press the sharp edge of the blade to your skin sharply dragging your hand and drawing blood.  You examined your cracks and missing pieces using the razor to break more and more, turning your porcelain skin to dust and shattered pieces, so lost in what you were doing that you didn't hear the bunker door open.

 

So lost that you didn't hear the advancing footsteps until they stopped right outside the bathroom.

 

So lost that you forgot that you didn't lock the door.

 

So lost that you didn't look up until you heard the creak of a door and a sharp intake of breath.

 

Your head lifted up, and you dropped the razor in surprise, and a little bit of horror, the harsh clattering of metal against tile jerking you out of your stupor and your eyes widened as you focused on the hurricane of emotions passing over the face of Dean Winchester and your own face too.  _Fear. Disgust. Guilt. Shame. Confusion. Understanding. A sick sort of acceptance._ A kind of horrible agreement between you and Dean where you destroyed yourself with your thoughts and sharp blades, and he drowned himself in whiskey and women. Both of you were trying to rid yourselves of the massive pit of despair deep in your tattered souls.  His eyes flicked from your face, with its furrowed brows and lips parted in corresponding bits confusion and concern, to your red-stained arm then back to your face.

 

“Why?” Dean asks, desperately trying to deny the fact that he was asking himself as much as he was asking you.

 

Your nuisances showed on your torn skin, and Dean's showed in his damaged liver and high libido. You open your mouth to explain, something, anything to Dean but no new words come out. No magical conclusions for what you do to yourself pop into your head. No easy way to tell Dean _why._ So you just stand there, opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water and he looks on sadly knowing the thoughts running through your head as his own because they are his own too.

 

“We both know you’re no better Dean,” you finally whisper, your cracking voice telling him everything he already knows.

 

Dean opens his arms, and you fall into them. He holds you carefully as if you were glass and you grip his shirt like you expect him to disappear beneath your fingertips and leave you alone again with your murderous thoughts. You stand there, the two of you, clutching the broken pieces of each other and holding them together. You and Dean were your own worst enemies, but you found solace and comfort in each other’s brokenness.

 

When Dean finds you bleeding in pieces, he bandages you up and lays with you until you fall asleep, whispering comfort into your ears. When you find Dean stumbling into the bunker in the early hours of the morning, perfume on his unbuttoned collar, lipstick on his neck and the burning smell of alcohol on his breath you stroke his hair as he throws up his regrets in the bathroom and you cradle him in your arms until his eyes close. You couldn’t fix yourselves or each other. Both of you were beyond fixing, but for the brief moments you held each other, you found an ease to your pain.

 

You were Dean’s lifeline, and he was yours.

 

You shared a sick sort of love.


End file.
